


Mesh

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Asexual Character, Established Relationship, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 14:17:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2815025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carol struggles to tell John her latest orders at a Bolian amusement park.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mesh

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Inspired by [this post on tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/105506344555/daywclker-write-more-ships-involving-asexual).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

They need to talk. Not over the communicator, certainly not in text. This is one of those things that has to be done face to face, and Carol’s almost as begrudging about that as she is about the news itself. It seems so callous, after how well they fit together, how perfect he’s been to her, to call John up and say: _We have to talk._

It’s sunny outside. Beautiful, of course, like every day of theirs ever is. Oh, the sunlight will fade soon, yes; they never get off work early, but it’s still clear skies and glowing warmth and the orange silhouette of that illumination around all the sleek buildings of London. His work is too far away from hers, but then, with transports as easy as they are, it doesn’t really matter.

She picks a black dress on the short side, classic jeans underneath and flat boots, staring at her own eyes in the mirror the whole time she changes. If she could get him aside, she would, but their schedules are both too busy to have dates not planned in advance. This one’s been in the making for a month, and she’s not willing to forgo it, no matter how badly her stomach churns—she’s been _so_ looking forward to this, and if only her orders had come in a week later, she’d be grinning _so_ wide right now.

Instead, she gathers up her jacket, her bag, finger-combs her hair a final time and heads for the door. She takes one look at her tiny apartment before she leaves, even though she’s coming right back. It feels vaguely like she’s saying goodbye to an era. If she had her way, she might go home with him and stay there until, well.... San Francisco is a beautiful city in its own right. For John, she could live there.

She locks the door behind her, even though there’s little need in this day and age. The walk to the nearest transport center seems absurdly longer than usual.

* * *

And it’s all worth it when she materializes, the bright fairgrounds blurring to life all around her. The transport platform is a small little enclave in the midst of all the adventure, and Carol spares the Bolian woman behind the controls a nod of gratitude. Bolian festivities are infamous, and she’s always wanted to visit this traveling cavalcade of delights. When she was younger, her father was always too busy. When she grew, she was always too sheltered. But now she has John, and she cracks holes in her vast schedule just for these moments of joy.

She spots him easily, though there’s a crowd of onlookers knotted around, waiting for loved ones. They’re mostly human—this is still Earth, after all—but there are no humans quite like her John. He stands tall between them, his usual black ensemble piercing through their colours, his handsome face as gorgeous as she remembers it, his sharp eyes calling to her like a song. She hikes the strap of her bag up her shoulder and walks to him slower than she’d like—she always wants to run right into his arms. Foolish, yes, but he does that to her. And it’s a feeling she cherishes. The usual butterflies do something to quench the other worries.

She comes into him, and his arms lift, bracketing her for a small hug. She slips her hands around his waist, beneath his overcoat, and lifts up on her toes to kiss his cheek, trying to be chaste for public. But then his broad hands are against her shoulder blades, warm and soft and everything she wants, and she gives in, tilts her head and brushes her mouth along his. He kisses her back, tantalizingly controlled. The urge to drag him off into privacy spikes as it often does, but he makes no move beyond this, and he detangles too soon. She’s left with a fluttering heart beating wildly against her chest and her hands slipping down to his. “I’ve been looking forward to this,” she breathes before she can stop herself.

“That makes two of us.” John’s smile is enchanting. He squeezes his fingers firmly around hers and turns to guide her away from the transport platform, already filling with the glowing columns of other beings. She follows where he leads.

She loves him more than words can say.

* * *

She can’t tell him right away. She should, she knows, but she doesn’t want to ruin their night, and she isn’t always as brave as he thinks her. She glides along at his side, quiet, apart from when they ask little things—how was work?—how is your father?—did you get my gift?—it’s been too long. There are so many things to see around them, and painted rides tower all around them, like mountains shielding a valley. Concession stands are matted together, creating seas of blinding lights and signs, paving new paths between them, people milling about from nearly every race in the Federation. They pass a group of Andorians poking dazedly at sticks of cotton candy, and Carol’s reminded of her childhood fantasies of ending up with some wild, exotic alien. Andorians were always near the top of her list—there’s something about their antennae and the fluff of their white hair that she finds relentlessly attractive. But then, John Harrison, in all his human normalcy, is even more captivating, and she never regrets her choice of him.

She doesn’t know where to go first, and she points at various things, and John tells her, “Anywhere you like,” without having much preference himself. But somehow they wind up first through a hollowed out amphitheater with performers and sculptures scattered all around. It’s something of a cross between a gallery and a carnival, and they pay just as much attention to the art as the live beings. A glowing collection of balls is stacked precariously on a waist-high white platform, and they stop there to try and decipher which planets they’re each supposed to be, as they’re all covered in etched patterns that seem indicative of different cultures. She gets stuck on one that she can only assume is, “Venus?”

But John tells her, “A Tellarite would take offense to that.”

And Carol only laughs, because, “A Tellarite would take offense to anything.” She learned that one the hard way in the Academy, after being scolded, for the first time in her life, for being too amicable. The universe is an eccentric place.

They come across two humans juggling seventeen fiery batons, and for a moment, they simply stand and observe, until John, tight at her side, whispers in her ear, “I’ve always thought juggling a better metaphor than entertainment.”

Glancing at his chiseled features, more intent on her than the performance, Carol muses, “Have I perhaps found the one skill not in John Harrison’s arsenal?”

John gives her a lazy grin and replies, “Carol, I could juggle twenty of those beginner batons, but it would make it no more useful a skill.” Carol lifts her eyebrows.

“Maybe not for a graceful panther like you, but the rest of us can use the reflexes to catch a dozen falling things at once.”

“Panther, am I?”

Carol returns his cheeky grin as the conversation veers off target, and she takes his hand again and moves them on and out of the amphitheater. A group of Vulcans is presenting a ten-meter-high hedge maze intersected with various Federation plants, and Carol’s tempted to race him through it. Competition flares easily between them, high achievers as they both are. But in the end, she’d rather spend the time with him, all the time she has, and a part of her hopes they’ll get lost in it forever.

* * *

By the time they clear the surprisingly intricate maze—but of course, she shouldn’t have expected the usual human simplicity from Vulcans—their light is threatening to wane. The rides are now lit up with flashing lights, blaring across the sky to one another like a steady conversation of Morse code. Carol’s starting to get hungry, but the fun is still pulsing in her veins too fast to stop just yet, and she nods to the crowd of game stalls, asking, “Shall we play?”

John lifts his elbow in invitation, and she wraps both hands around it, sweeping into the mass of whirring noises and mingled jeers and cheers. Prizes hang from the ceilings of the stalls, fluffy toys and child-level equipment and a few garish bags of sweets. There’s a wide variety of games, but she’s not surprised when John gravitates to the classics; he finds a phaser match. They aren’t _really_ phasers, of course; their beams are pure light and nothing more. Some of the stalls hold larger faux-weapons to play with, ranging from Klingon blasters to Romulan canons, but the little, standard-issue Federation phasers are Carol’s favourite design: compact but efficient. She’d take an easy-to-wear, lightweight weapon over a bulky, show-off type of gun any day.

They wait their turn behind three Grazerites, then take their place at the front desk, where a row of four phasers are mounted. The wiry Bolian behind the counter tells them, “A most wise choice, dear patrons! All one must do to win big is hit one hundred targets in the allotted time! Don’t hit the red rocks, mind!” Even as he talks, the plain screen background of the stall bursts to life, little holographic rocks whizzing out from all directions.

Carol asks, “How long is the allotted time?”

“One Earth minute,” The alien tells her cheerily, already stepping out of the way to dispel the illusion that his head’s being pummeled with pebbles.

“So we’ll have to hit nearly two targets a second,” she notes, well aware that the average civilian would have no hope of making so many accurate shots so quickly. The man shrugs like it’s nothing, though his smug smile betrays him. Clearly, he has no idea that he’s dealing with two of Starfleet’s elite.

Carol would ask more of the conditions, but John’s already picking up a phaser and gesturing with his other hand at the prizes tied to the rafters. “And what exactly is the ‘big’ win?”

“Ah!” The Bolian nearly bends in two to point up, catching the bottoms of various prizes to turn them forward facing. “One of these lovely green-ribbon gems to the winner, one of these delicious yellow-ribbon bundles if you can make one hundred, one of these blue-ribbon adorable toys for one hundred and fifty targets hit, and one size up for each addition twenty-five targets! With trade up opportunities, of course.” The Bolian winks, and Carol’s eyes drift through the colourful hoards to rest on a big, fluffy sehlat doll that would look cute on the other half of her bed where she’d like to but can’t realistically have John.

John glances sideways at Carol and asks, “Care to help me win a gem?” And she laughs, half-convinced she can beat him. She picks up her own phaser, tethered to the booth by a thin wire, and John nods to the Bolian. “Say when.”

Waving his arm like a flag in a race, the Bolian shouts, “Go!” He hits the switch and steps aside just in time to avoid getting a light beam through his forehead as Carol shoots the first rock.

But John has one a fraction of a second later, and Carol’s jerking halfway across the screen to hit the next rock, then another; they come flying out, like little grey-black stars on a white sky. When a red one appears, she only stops herself from shooting it just in time, though she has no idea what the penalty is. John’s beams crisscross with hers at an equally impressive speed, but the competition’s seized her and she won’t waste time looking at him. She has no idea what she’d do with a random, probably worthless gemstone, but maybe she can trade up to a cute toy, or clip it to her fridge and use it for a reminder of today.

Today. The news she has to share twists her guts for one unforgivable moment, and she falters into missing her first shot since the game started. Frustrated, she doubles her concentration efforts; she was the best shot in her class at Starfleet, and she doesn’t have to look to know that John can’t be far behind her.

She’s so in the zone of things that the beep at the end of the game makes her jump. Her posture relaxes a small degree, hands dropping, and the wiry Bolian clutches his chest to exclaim, “Dear me, I haven’t seen shooting like that since that pack of Vulcans half an hour ago.” Carol laughs again, supposing she shouldn’t have thought herself so special; she and John can hardly be the only Starfleet recruits around the fair. Nonetheless, the man points to the ceiling to announce, “One hundred and two, for the human with the nice smile, ninety-eight for the runner up! What shall your price be, hm?” His finger hovers beneath different bags of candy, and she waves her hand.

“Keep it; could I work up to a toy, instead?” She doesn’t need to have a sugar crash later on, and she’s feeling more into savoury than sweet at the moment. But she wants a little more time before they eat—her adrenaline’s spiked again.

“By all means! If you beat your friend and your last score, one of these furry delights can be yours!”

John shifts soundlessly into a firing stance beside her, and Carol announces, “Start it up, please!”

And then they’re firing again, blasting rock after rock into nonexistence, the screen never quite clearing. It seems to her like the rocks are moving faster this time, but she’s more than capable of keeping up with it, and she can feel John reacting just as well beside her. Together, the shatter the miniature sky, until the buzzer’s sounding and Carol’s eyes are dry from not blinking. Clapping, the Bolian announces, “One hundred and twelve and one hundred and seven! Excellent!” Carol’s count is again a fraction higher, and she gives John a sidelong look, half wondering if he went easy on her to aide her quest for a better prize.

But she still wants something a little bigger, and asks, “One more round?”

John counters, “Care to make it interesting?”

Every day with John is interesting, but Carol still asks, “Oh?”

John’s smile melts into something more calm and serious when he suggests, “If I win, you tell me what’s been eating you.”

Carol frowns, sighs, and shakes her head, because of course he’d know; she should’ve expected as much. She was forgetting about it too, having so much fun, but of course it still has to come out. She says, “Alright, but what do I get if I win?”

John says, “Whatever you want,” with that little, sneaky half-smile that seems to promise her the world. She idly considers asking him to move in with her—wouldn’t that be a prize. But instead she just nods and looks back at the game.

It goes off again, an explosion of rocks that Carol throws herself into. She knows she’ll have to tell him sooner or later, but she doesn’t _want_ to, it’ll be too hard, and if she wins she can at least justify putting it off, and this is her game; she’s perfection with a phaser, even a fake carnival knockoff, and she unleashes herself on the rocks with a wild ferocity that would make a lion proud.

And beside her, John is a rocket, firing shot after shot that slices right through pebbles she was aiming at. She doesn’t let it discourage her, if anything, it makes her more vicious, the rush of a true contest rippling through her—it’s so hard to find people that can keep up. But John is just as unstoppable and he lights up the whole screen with spot-on lances.

It takes Carol a second, steeped in frustration at the lack of targets, to realize when the game’s ended. She has to straighten herself back up and loosen her grip on the trigger. Her knuckles are tense.

She looks at the Bolian, but he’s gawking at the scoreboard, and she sees why and pales.

One hundred and fifty eight for her. _Three hundred and nine_ for him.

Like it’s nothing at all, John points at the large sehlat in the corner and announces, “We’ll take that.” The Bolian’s still gaping, then nods dumbly. Carol’s getting the distinct impression no one’s ever made it even close to that high a score before. The physics are rustling through Carol’s brain; it doesn’t seem such a thing should even be possible.

But John is also too handsome to be believed, too sweet, too good with his words. She shouldn’t expect him to be restrained by what’s humanly possible in the rest of the universe.

She takes the stuffed animal into her arms, beaming despite herself. Maybe it was worth it to lose.

* * *

There are so many fanciful concoctions at the fair that it’s hard to know where to start. Carol turns away from most of the more superfluous things, the candy and cotton candy and mounds of ice cream, but that doesn’t narrow the list by much. John doesn’t seem to have much preference, so they wind up wandering around until Carol spots a sushi stand and that settles it. Carol points, not willing to shout over the thrum of tight-knit people all around them, and he nods in understanding. They squeeze their way to the stand and order two trays of various rolls, not all of the fillings of which originate on Earth. Carol’s adventurous enough not to mind, and John is more fearless than exploratory, but he still loads his tray with a variety.

They make their way to the tent-covered gathering of benches and picnic tables up the grassy slope. Paper lanterns keep the place a kaleidoscope of colours, even as the sun slips away. Carol’s jacket, though thin, is thermal-enhanced, and John’s long overcoat should be warm enough. But she still considers sitting on the same side of the table to press against him and cuddle.

She sits on the other side anyway, knowing she has a serious talk ahead and there’s no sense getting lost in mindless snuggling. She puts down her tray, pops the lid on the little soy sauce container, and breaks apart her wooden chopsticks.

Across from her, John gives the sehlat the seat next to him. He pokes through his different rolls with his chopsticks, then settles on a simple avocado piece and lifts it to his mouth. She settles into her own sushi, wondering hopefully if he’s forgotten, but after he’s done swallowing, he asks, “Are you going to tell me what it is, or will I have to beat you in another game?”

She gives him a wry grin and tastefully avoids asking if he was going easier on her for the first two rounds. She eats two more pieces before she gives in, puts down her chopsticks, and sighs.

She crosses her arms over the table, in front of her tray, looks up at him and says over the low din around them, “I’ve been assigned to a starship. The U.S.S. Farragut. I... we leave next month.” It was easier to say than she thought, but it stills makes her... anxious. It’s a great honour, of course. Every Starfleet member on Earth wants their chance to explore the stars. But John will still be one of those people, and that’ll put them light years apart.

John’s expression is carefully neutral. A part of her can’t help but wonder if he already knew, if he’d heard somehow. He works with her father, after all; it wouldn’t be so hard to catch a snippet of conversation. Finally, he says, “Congratulations.”

She says, “Thank you,” and then, “I’ll miss you.” Which isn’t nearly the half of it. Neither of them bother to say that it’s not forever. That’s obvious. But it could be for a long time, and she might not want to give it up, and the future is uncertain and that’s a problem in itself. He reaches across the table and lays his hand on top of hers. It’s much bigger, stronger, and his knuckles clench as he squeezes her palm, long fingers locked tight around her. He’s so _warm_.

“We’ll have to make this date very special if it’s going to be one of our last for a while.” His face is still serious. She probably looks the same. She nods and turns her hand over in his. All their dates are special, but... maybe they’ll let her take her new sehlat to her cabin, and she’ll call it Harris Johnson or something stupid like that. He picks her hand up to kiss the back of it, like saying: _everything will be okay._

* * *

They go to every ride they can. They ride three different roller coasters together, strapped in tightly to each other’s sides, Carol screaming over the wind just for the sake of it and John relaxed and practically lounging in his seat. It whips her hair about her face, but when they get off the third one, John stops to finger comb her blond locks back around her ears. He bends down to kiss her afterwards, and she tosses her arms around him, squeezing tight.

They collect the sehlat toy from the attendant, and they head on to the next ride, hover-bumper-balls. John tells her with amusement, “It used to just be bumper cars, and you’d ride little go-karts on a field and ram one another.”

Carol, always interested in history, muses, “I wonder if there are any of those around here?”

John says, “This will do,” and they wait in line.

Ten minutes later, they’re leaving their prize with the attendant and climbing in to separate smooth spheres of clear but coloured plastic, soft pads littering the outer surface and a cushy seating area with safety straps and a wheel inside. Smarting from her last defeat, Carol’s plotting strategy from the minute she’s locked in.

Once everyone’s pressed their ready-to-go-button inside the shells, the spheres are released all at once, drifting weightlessly across the giant globe that entraps them all. Several balls continue to topple uselessly about, their pilots clearly trying to figure out the controls, while others snap to life, already plowing into one another. At first, John bumps others, avoiding her, and Carol deviously does nothing, just carefully uses the momentum off the wall to hit her targets. She doesn’t engage her engine even once. She ricochets off opponents, earning little victory beeps that add to her sphere’s score, solely off the proverbial impulse engines. She keeps her eye on John the whole time, who plows through opponents easily without ever once getting bumped. Which is probably for the best. Anyone who did defy him would likely find themselves hunted down in short order. For the most part, they leave each other alone, John bent over his controls like a madman with a fun toy and her giggling lightly each time her sphere’s hit and leaves her bouncing.

Then the timer chimes, counting down their final ten seconds, and out of nowhere he comes at her, slams her right down, sends her sphere crashing to the bottom of the pit and chasing to pin her there. He looks down at her, a cocky smirk painting his gorgeous mouth, and she gives him an innocent pout.

The clock strikes three, and she engages her engine for the first time that match, all of her pent up power smashing easily through his worn out one. She sends him flying up into the ceiling, pinning him there instead, grinning up at him in victory as the timer sounds. The goal isn’t to pin your opponent, but she finds trapping him her own victory anyway, and he looks down at her with a mixture of interest and pride and hunger that makes her chest swell. She’ll miss this.

When they get out of the globe, he swings his arm around her waist and sweeps her in for a long, lingering kiss that leaves her knees weak. She clutches at his jacket and only restrains herself from tugging him to the floor because the attendant shoves her sehlat back into their hands and drags her back to reality.

* * *

The ferris wheel turns at such an excruciatingly slow pace that it seems to be not moving at all. While they wait in line, John tells her, “The park has a history of over-romantics jamming the ride to prolong their experience at the top.” Carol lifts her eyebrows, smiling around a stifled-laugh—how romantic, indeed. Disruptive, though. Perhaps this is a better method. Although, in a way, it’s almost too bad they no longer have the option to be bad and different. Clutching her hand in his, John adds, “Not that either of us would ever stoop to such measures.” The mischievous glint in his eye tells a whole other story all on its own, and Carol gives his side a playful shove. Now the sloth-like nature of the ride only adds to the appeal, and they wait in a puddle of anticipation.

One more couple ahead of them, two bickering brunet humans and a mildly exasperated-looking Vulcan, and John and Carol make it to the front of the line. The attendant offers to hold her sehlat like on all the other rides, and she passes it over, imagining that it might be cruel to subject an innocent animal, fake or otherwise, to the not-so-innocent sight of her and John alone. The closest carriage seems to take forever to reach them. But it does, and Carol climbs in with John behind her, pulling the door shut to block out the sweltering noise of the fairgrounds.

Inside their little bubble, the curved walls are a pale pink, the benches a cushioned, complimentary blue, with wide windows from the waist up on either side. They sit across from one another, each with room for another person beside them, and their knees almost touch across the narrow distance. As the ride begins to crawl forward, John shifts to the edge of his seat, and Carol does the same, just barely getting the contact of their boots. Better that than nothing. He reaches his hands out, turns them over, and Carol places hers inside them.

He uses the grip to tug her forward, and she strains to meet the kiss, something light and small by necessity. But Carol wants more, and she finds herself standing up, head brushing just below the low-hanging ceiling, and she steps across the thin floor to take the seat on his other side. That way the sides of their legs can press into one another, their hands can clasp properly, and when she opens her lips for a kiss, she gets a longer, fuller one, with a tongue tracing her mouth and her breath melting into him.

Halfway through the string of messy, lingering kisses, Carol moves one of her hands to skim over John’s thigh. It rests halfway between his knee and crotch, and Carol thinks: _maybe now._ They’ve been together for a good while. She’s sure she knows him like the back of her hand, and he treats her better than anyone else she’s ever had. But it’s the longest she’s ever gone with a partner without sex, and it’s surprising to her that John, neither before this nor now, makes any move to grab her thighs, to cup her breasts, to do anything that might escalate the contact. She rubs her palm along his thigh, gets no more reaction than the earnest kisses she already has, and then she sucks in a breath and goes for it, bringing her hand to rest over his crotch. He pauses.

And his mouth pulls away from hers, leaving her bent over and flushed and hungry. He looks down at her hand and runs his tongue over his lips—it looks like he’s considering something. Always careful. Even now? Carol doesn’t understand. He delicately takes her wrist and moves it back to his thigh.

She murmurs, “I don’t understand.” Well, she does. She can read signals well enough; he doesn’t want to go any further. Now? Does he want to wait longer? She knows he finds her attractive; he tells her she’s beautiful all the time. As he looks at her, probably more hesitant than he appears, she says, “You don’t seem to want to do anything sexual.”

He says, carefully and neutrally, “I don’t.” He pauses, as though gauging her reaction, which isn’t much; she’d already deduced that. She gets the distinct impression that if he were less of a powerhouse, this admission would be more... _vulnerable._ “While I’m willing to make concessions for the sake of our relationship, I’ve recently come to the conclusion that I’m asexual.”

For a moment, all Carol can say is, “Oh.” It’s a bit of a surprise, though it shouldn’t be; perhaps she should’ve realized that earlier. She looks down at the two of their hands, still held—

“I’m bi-romantic,” he fills in, “But where I come from, these concepts weren’t so easily discussed, and I’m still... learning.” He looks at her, full of strength and a little distance, though Carol recognizes that he’s already given her a great deal of himself. John Harrison is a very private person, and this is probably the most he’s ever told anyone about his inner workings. It’s the first time he’s ever spoken of his past to her, and she’s tempted to ask where exactly he is from—something bizarrely left off his official record—but she knows he wouldn’t answer.

So she only squeezes his hand and tells him, “I’m glad you’re here now.” With a crooked half-smile, he nods, and she grins herself, eyebrows knitting together as she expresses, “And that’s not a concession I’d ask you to make.”

John’s so very resilient. He bounces back and has his spare hand on her thigh in a heartbeat, pressing into her jeans with an insistent heat, and he tells her, “I can take care of you.”

She meets his gaze just as steadily and assures him, “I can take care of myself. Though I appreciate the gesture, I get more than enough out of this relationship to be perfectly content like this.” Although she does pause to ask, “You don’t mind kissing...?” Because they do that often, and that might be a difficult thing for her to go without.

Smirking coyly, he teases, “Just keep it above the waist, Marcus,” and something about his tone makes her giggle and do a faux-salute. Whatever part of her is disappointed at knowing she can’t enjoy his body sexually—at least, not with him enjoying hers back, which she would require—falls by the wayside when presented with the rest of him, the full brunt of his charm, his honey-deep voice and his frightening intelligence and the fit of his body against hers. He leans in towards her, face tilted, and she leans back, taking in a long, languid kiss that ricochets pleasure all the way down to her toes, where they curl in her boots.

As she wraps her hands around his shoulders, he looms over her, presses her backwards, until she’s lying along the bench with her legs spread around him, and he growls, “You’re the perfect human specimen, Carol.” A strange compliment, but just Carol’s kind.

She tells him, “I love you too,” and pecks him on the nose. There’s something about his weight over her that’s infinitely comforting. He seems just as comfortable, and she nuzzles affectionately into his neck, latching on like a teddy bear, more living sehlat than toy. His broad shoulders block out some of the sky, the light now primarily from stars and the flashing festival bulbs. The multi-coloured array dances around his silhouette, making him more beautiful than ever.

He kisses her and murmurs against her cheek, “We’ll be up here for another half an hour or so.” She knows, despite his vagueness, that he’ll have the exact time figured out down to the seconds. “Shall we bask in each other’s company, or escape to fit in more of the fair?”

“Escape?” she muses. They’re quite far up, but she should’ve known that would hardly stop her superhuman boyfriend. She would like to stay here, of course, cuddling and touching and talking, but this could be their last date, and she’s not sure she wants to spend it all in one place. Unless, of course, that place is either his apartment or hers—they can still, she imagines, spend the night together, and she’s wanted to fall asleep in his arms. As John waits for her reaction, not bothering to confirm her reiteration, Carol decides, “Escape could be fun.” Seeing John in action always is.

So he stalks slowly back to a sitting position, pulling Carol with him, and he turns his attention the door.

It’s bolted shut, of course, set only to release when the ride reaches the bottom. But the control panel on the side is easy enough for John to pull away, and Carol watches with the childish thrill of feeling _naughty._ He bypasses circuits and resets wires, until the door smoothly pulls aside, the night sky and painted-steel bars before them just barely crawling by.

He offers an arm to her, and Carol falls into it, letting him hold her by the waist. They’ve watched several old classic movies together, another mark in the trend of John’s older preferences, and this reminds her vaguely of King Kong. Except her ape is just as typically beautiful as the damsel, and there are no screams below, only gasps, as they emerge into the crisp air.

John clutches easily to the long pole in front of them. Carol reaches for it too, holding on even as John holds her tight, and she takes a deep breath as she leaps out of the carriage, legs tossing around the cold rod. John steadies her against it, blanketing her body, and he begins to work down the metal to another bar intersecting theirs. Carol goes with him, glad she wore boots with traction and jeans below her dress, as the flimsy sides of her skirt are tossing around her in the low breeze. John’s coat makes noises as it billows, but he pays it no mind, calm as ever. She takes solace in that fearlessness and finds this brash, daredevil tactic a surprisingly easy thing to move through. She would never do this sort of thing on her own—her father would have her head for it, and the attendant below is shouting wildly at them—but all she can see is John, guiding her down the intricate ride for a memory that will last her a lifetime.

They make their way slowly to the bottom, Carol somewhat breathless and John as cool as ever. He doesn’t boast though, doesn’t show off; she already thinks the world of him anyway. She feels vaguely like she’s finished a particularly creative Academy obstacle course. When they descend, the other people in the lineup are ogling them and the attendant rushes forward, flustered.

Carol takes the sehlat toy from his arms, panting with exhilaration, while John assures the frantic Bolian that they’re perfectly alright. Then he sweeps his hand back around Carol’s waist and takes them away while the attendant still splutters after them, conflicted and unable to leave his post. Carol has her arms tight around the toy’s large midsection, and she leans into John’s body as much as she can while they walk.

* * *

They try a few more rides, small, little things like giant spinning tea cups and a mammoth, old-fashioned swinging boat, and they visit a petting zoo full of all the cuddliest animals in the Federation. One Andorian sloth follows Carol around for most of it, continually hugging her legs, until she gives in and passes John the sehlat, opting to carry the sloth herself. There are no real sehlats in the open ranch, only small, social animals that blossom under the attention. A burly trader laden with stuffed pockets stops them near the exit and tries fervently to sell them tribbles, which John examines with that scientific curiosity in his eyes, but Carol, knowing they’re in no position for pets, insists, “No, thank you.”

At the edge of the waist-high fence, the sloth makes a whining noise like it doesn’t want her to go, and John reaches to gently stroke the trilling creature, brushing over the long fur on its belly. It croons happily, and Carol joins in, the two of them massaging the fuzzy bundle until its wide eyes close and it seems to have fallen asleep. Carol places it gently back in the ranch on a particularly fluffy bush of pink hay, then hurries to follow John out, who muses, “I think a crocodile might make a better pet for us.”

“Hm. I’ve always liked dinosaurs,” Carol concedes, “but perhaps we should start with fish.”

“We can scale a ferris wheel but only handle fish?” John teases, lifting an eyebrow.

Carol suggests, “How about we buy fish before I leave, and if you’ve still got them alive by the time I get back, we can move up to a crocodile?” But she regrets saying it after she does; she didn’t want to bring up leaving. John doesn’t ask when she’ll be coming back from her mission; if she knew, she’d tell him.

But she doesn’t, and her feet slow amidst the bustle of the amusement park. John slows with her, and for a moment, they’re both quiet. Then Carol looks sideways at him and asks, small and open, “If we head back early, will there be time for you to come home with me?”

* * *

Before they reach the transporters, John’s hand draws her aside, tucked behind a small booth selling candied apples. Looking her in the eye, he says, “I have my own plans soon coming to fruition.”

Carol knows better than to ask what those plans are. Either he can’t tell her or he won’t. He has the deliberate, security-clearance-only tone, and she only nods and tells him, “You’d do wonderfully on a starship.” Hopefully, that’s where he’s working to, why he’s telling her. She can tell from the look that passes over his face that she’s right; he’ll join her in the stars soon enough.

He says, “We’re both very talented. We’ll find a way to be on the same ship and get everything we ever wanted.” There’s a ferocity in it. She knows his plans are bigger than her, and John Harrison has a way of getting what he wants.

But those plans include her, and that’s more than she could ask for. She’s always left a space in her plans for him too.

Together, they finish their way to the transporters, still hand in hand, the sehlat clutched to Carol’s chest like a life preserver. She and John have to stand on different transporter pads, but they instruct the attendant to send them to the same location in London. Just before they leave, John looks aside and asks her, “You don’t mind if I stay the night, do you?”

Carol grins as the beams flicker around them, pulling their molecules apart.


End file.
